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Prologue
She was naked, and curled up on her stomach like a trusting child. Her cheek was pressed to the floor, her knees folded beneath her, her arms threaded under her body between them. A double strand of rope ran over her hips, bisecting the tattoo of a flower at her lower back, just above the pale pink thong she wore. That rope connected to the wraps around her ankles, as well as to her bound wrists, folded prayer-like between her feet.
A man wearing jeans and nothing else rested on his bare heels next to her. His fingertips trailed along her spine, questing, seeking response. Her lips parted, her eyes lifting to his shadowed face. His dark, close cropped beard had threads of silver. She had blue eyes. They were pretty any day of the week, but when she looked at him, the emotions that filled them were what every woman held deep in her heart. Those feelings couldn't be summoned at will, consciously given. They had to be earned, with trust and love.
The blue became the bluest possible blue, the shine in them like the light of a temple.
"Master," she whispered. When he touched her mouth, he had a belt folded over in his hand. Her lips pressed against his knuckles, the strap. She had no fear. Only desire, and a craving to feel his touch, the strike of that need...
Julie paused the video on her phone. Madison had sent it to her months ago, to give her an idea of what she wanted to accomplish with Wonder, her erotic performance theater. How many times had she watched it since then? The Dom in the video was never clearly in the camera, but he was as strong a presence as if he were center screen. Whenever his submissive looked at him, Julie felt what she felt. That aching yearning, the edge of all she wanted, just beyond her bound fingertips.
Only she wasn't the girl in the video. She merely wished she was.
"I'm almost forty, and no one has ever fallen in love with me." Her voice echoed against the concrete walls.
Julie put her feet
in the hotel's indoor pool. The Hampton Inn outside Wytheville, Virginia was a quiet place on a weeknight, so she had the space to herself. A glass wall allowed her to see the faint outline of the rolling hills behind the hotel. In daylight, she'd probably see the details: green pastures, farmland and forest. Maybe a hint of the distant mountains of West Virginia, through which she'd passed on the winding turnpike to get this far from New York City in one day.
What incredible stillness. Where she lived in New York there was always noise. Cabbies honking at all hours, and an undercurrent of movement, people, and energy. Here there was the distant trundling of the elevator, the occasional murmur of voices, and this. Tiny ripples of water echoed against their wavy reflection on the gray satin painted concrete wall.
Her whispered words joined the echo. She'd never said them aloud, and she'd definitely never say them to anyone else. Emotional masturbation was best done in private. Though it hadn't been reciprocated, she had considered herself in love, several times. But tonight she was wondering if that was really true.
Julie folded her ankle socks into snowballs, as she liked to call them, and put them in her canvas sneakers. She aligned them with toes out, because shoes spent most of their lives having to point toward one another. At least when hers were off, they could see what else was out in the world. Though there were worse things than always having to gaze at your other half, if you were lucky enough to find him. Shoes came predestined as couples.
Yeah, she was in one of those kinds of moods. Dramatic melancholy, a permanent side effect of working in theater.
"He has to make my knees weak when he kisses me. Not just when we first start dating, but after a hundred years together. And he has to be able to make me laugh, even when my heart is breaking. Why is finding a man who can meet those two simple requirements so freaking hard?"
She moved her feet back and forth slowly. The water was cool but not cold. She liked that. Extremes no longer interested her. The cold icy water of a lake, the powerful heat of summer, used to seem so exciting. Backdrops against which she could push herself to the limit of experience, daring the cup of life to overflow like a waterfall. The roaring, Niagara Falls kind.
She rotated her feet in opposing circles, watching the ripples drift out, collide. When she'd embraced those extremes, she'd wanted a passionate love story. She'd sought out the cruel, beautiful men who had passion for certain, but no love to give. They were more than willing to take all she had to offer, though. An endless, painful well.
Now she wanted a passion that started as fire and melted into warmth. A steady heat, holding fast for a lifetime against the coldness of the world. Without that hearth, small disappointments could magnify and link, forming a chain that could strangle the heart.
She remembered being a child and summoning the courage to sled down the hill behind her house. Reaching the bottom, heart pumping and her face wreathed in smiles, she turned to see if her mother was still at the window watching. She wasn't.
Her phone buzzed across the concrete like an irritated mosquito, bringing her back to the present. He'd already left three texts. If he was resorting to a call, he was getting pissed and insistent. She sighed and reached for the phone.
"Are you calling to wish me a happy birthday?" she asked.
"We were coming over to take you out for a magnificent night on the town. Dinner at a restaurant you can't afford, dancing at a club you can't get into if you're not with someone important--like me. We were going to finish it off with a midnight boat ride around Lady Liberty so you could do your usual ritual of tossing a coin and making your wish for the coming year."
"It sounds wonderful." She was so maudlin, the thought that she'd hurt her best friends' feelings choked her up. "You guys are wonderful. I love you both. You know that, right?"
"Thomas, she's telling me she loves us and she's about to cry. Find out where she is so I can go get her."
"No, Marcus--"
"Where are you?" Thomas took the phone, all calm and concerned. His soothing Southern tone was as dear as Marcus's sharp New Yorker impatience. Different versions of the same love and care.
"I left. I need you guys to water my plants and watch after my place while I'm gone. I don't know for how long. I'm on my way to North Carolina. I'm going to take Madison up on her offer to be managing director for the first couple shows at her erotic performance theater. It's my birthday present to me."
She'd turned over the running of her current community theater to her very capable stage manager, Belinda. After getting over the initial shock of hearing about her promotion via ten p.m. phone call, Belinda had been unable to contain her excitement. The Juilliard graduate had been ready for some time to move into the managing director role. Sheila, her assistant stage manager, could move into Belinda's shoes capably. Julie estimated six months on her return, but with Belinda, she knew she didn't have to worry about it. The dusty hole-in-the-wall Julie had turned into a community theater in her little corner of the big city had evolved into a recommended attraction for the niche fans of amateur and avant-garde performance. Belinda would tend to it well.
